


All My Love

by alifletcher2010



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22856731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alifletcher2010/pseuds/alifletcher2010
Summary: Gently, he cupped her face, bringing her close to him. Before he kissed her, he whispered, “There are those beautiful eyes I’ve been looking for all morning.”And then, right before he brought his lips to hers, right before she was able to taste the sweetness of his kiss...Feyre woke up.
Relationships: Elain Archeron/Azriel, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 18
Kudos: 136





	All My Love

**Author's Note:**

> Idk where this came from, it just needed to be written. It is likely riddled with historical inaccuracies, but I don’t even care. Enjoy. I’m sorry.

“Darling,” the soft whisper against the skin of her neck made Feyre shiver, but wasn’t enough to fully wake her from her slumber. Instead she grumbled and buried herself deeper into her husband’s warmth, losing herself in his scent that made her so very much at home.

Rhys laughed gently, but didn’t stop his ministrations. The tender kisses against her neck became more insistent as they traveled lower and lower. He pressed his warm lips against her collarbone and whispered against her skin again. “Feyre, we need to get up.”

“No,” she whined. “Five more minutes.”

“Well, I suppose if you aren’t going to get up, then I’ll just have to leave you here, all alone…” Rhys withdrew slightly and Feyre shot up, grabbing him and pulling him close to her.

“No! I’m awake!” her protests only earned her another laugh from Rhys’s lips.

Gently, he cupped her face, bringing her close to him. Before he kissed her, he whispered, “There are those beautiful eyes I’ve been looking for all morning.”

And then, right before he brought his lips to hers, right before she was able to taste the sweetness of his kiss...Feyre woke up.

The bed was cold and far smaller than the one in her dream. The sun was barely peeking above the horizon, not shining through her blinds. And there wasn’t a hit of Rhys’s scent anywhere. Feyre was all alone.

For a moment, she laid there, trying to chase the dream, trying to remember the feel of his skin and the smell of his hair. The exercise proved too painful. The dreams of him were worse than the nightmares. They left her dazed and out of sorts all day, questioning her reality. And she needed to be together today. She needed to put on her brave face and hide the pain. The rest of the country was celebrating, so she must too.

Sleep never came back after dreams like these. So instead of snuggling deeper into the blankets, Feyre turned on her lamp and shuffled across the cool room. Though December in California was mild, it was still cold enough in the mornings to make her wish she hadn’t left her slippers downstairs.

Feyre opened her closet and reached for the box that she had stashed on the upper shelf. She hadn’t brought it down in a week. It had been too hard with all the celebrations around her to dwell on what might have been. With Operation Magic Carpet well underway and Victory ships full of soldiers coming home everyday, she was struggling to fit her grief into this new world of peace. But today, today she could allow herself a little time.

She brought the box back with her to the bed and opened the barely closed lid. It was stuffed to the brim with letters, some sent, some not. Feyre reached for the oldest one and began to read. Though she could nearly recite the letters word for word now, there was comfort in seeing his handwriting there on the pages. Proof that he had penned those words.

_March 11th, 1943_

_My Dearest Wife,_

_A week. It has only been a week since arriving in Hawaii. A week without you in my arms. A week without your smile. A week without your laugh. It feels like a lifetime. And yet I know this war could go on for years. How will I survive without seeing your beautiful eyes every morning? I’m sorry, my love, I didn’t mean to start this letter so melancholy._

_Training has begun and we spend our days…_

Most of the rest of the letter had been redacted, though what the enemy could have learned from the daily goings on of a soldier, Feyre had never understood. Many of his following letters had been similarly opened and sections blacked out. At first she had accepted it, it was war after all. But now she mourned those lost words, pieces of him she would never get back.

The next letter she reached for had two full paragraphs at the start blacked out. Feyre ran her fingers along the page, trying to trace the letters under the ink, but nothing. They had done their job too well.

_April 29th, 1943_

_Darling,_

_...you are constantly in my thoughts. Every moment I am not flying or sleeping (and even then too) I am thinking of you. I compose a letter to you every day in my heart, detailing to you all that fills my days. There is not enough paper in the whole regiment to contain my thoughts for you. I suppose this will have to do._

_All my love,_

_Rhys_

Feyre kissed the signature. _All his love._ He signed everyone of the letters she had received that way and she had signed all of hers the same. They had been married less than a year when he received his orders, but she had never once doubted his love. They had danced around each other for too long before Pearl Harbor and then after...it had felt silly to not make the most of the time they had together. She was grateful for every second they had had now.

The next letter was a rare one, received just a week after the previous one. Though Rhys had sworn up and down he wrote her constantly, less than half his letters ever made it to her. Other pieces of him, lost to this horrid war.

_May 5th, 1943_

_Cassian has been strange lately. I’m sure that’s what you wanted to hear from me. But it’s been enough that I am starting to genuinely worry for the man. When we left, he was unstoppable, a man ready to lay down his life for his country, with nothing to lose. Now...well, the other day, I found him staring, stone faced at the wall of the bunkhouse. I swear he had been crying, Feyre._

_We’ve received our orders and will be shipping out on…_

The rest of the letter was mostly blacked out, but the final three lines were enough to break her.

_I dream of you, every night. I dream of your perfect face and your sweet lips. I wish to live in those dreams._

_All my love,_

_Rhys_

It took another month to solve the mystery of what was wrong with Cassian. One night, Nesta came to visit her, pale faced and shaking, full of earth shattering news.

_A baby._

Cassian had left something behind after all.

Nesta and Cassian had always been a strange duo. Never quite loving, never quite hating, never pushing forward, but always circling closer. Until the week before he left. Apparently, they had spent the week curled up in Nesta’s small apartment, open with each other for once. Feyre had been so wrapped up in Rhys she hadn’t even noticed.

War made them all do crazy things, it changed them in indelible ways. It had made Nesta vulnerable. It made Elain, who had followed Azriel to the European front as a nurse, brave. It made Mor, who had always been a little wild and careful, more serious. She had joined as a WASP, braver than them all.

Feyre still didn’t know what she had become because of the war.

Broken, most likely.

After that life changing night, Feyre and Nesta had packed up their separate apartments, sold many of their belongings and moved to San Francisco. Jobs were plenty there and they had a little one on the way to worry about. And it was best to leave before talk started. Nesta went to work as an operator, wearing a ring that was only a lie on paper and Feyre went to work in the factories, building the very planes and tanks her husband would use.

The move had been necessary, but the months long gap between letters, so many lost in the move, because of it had nearly broken her. Too many nights she went to sleep, imagining the worst. Too many mornings waking up with puffy eyes and a pounding head. Now, it meant there was more of Rhys, scattered around the country, lost to her. She yearned for those letters.

_November 17th, 1943_

_It has been hard here. I know the holidays are approaching back home and I desperately want to be with you. Your letters are all that sustain me. I’m glad San Francisco is treating you and Nesta well. I tell all the lads that my wife works in the factories. I am so proud of you._

_We had a letter from Azriel. I feel bad that Cassian and I shipped out together and he went before us. But he was called up before we could even think to enlist. I still feel guilty about it. I take comfort in know he is near Elain at least._

_I remember the little tree we had last year for Christmas, decorated with paper and not much else. We had so little, but it felt so grand to be there with you. I know we give a single gift, but that morning, spent with you in bed, kissing every inch of your body, was better than any gift I’ve ever received. This year if I was with you, I would…_

The letter took an intimate turn as Rhys vividly described what he would do to her if he could. At some point, they stopped caring that the letters were being read. They missed each other. Many of the letters took a salacious turn at some point. Once that year, Feyre had even dropped some photos in the mail for him, for his eyes only. 

Now she could hardly stand to read those intimate words. Knowing it would likely never happen. That she may never again know the brush of his fingers against her skin. That there would never be anyone but him. he had been it for her.

She pulled out the last letter with shaking hands. There were only twenty, when really, there should have been so many, many more.

_December 5th, 1944_

_Darling,_

_I don’t have much time to write. In a few days we’ll be…_

Another redacted paragraph. The sting of it so much more painful since his already too short letter was nearly nonexistent with that paragraph gone.

_...but don’t worry. Cassian will be flying with me. There may be some radio silence here but I promise to make sure something comes to you by Christmas. Fear not. I feel it in my bones that soon this war will end._

_All my love,_

_Rhys_

It was the last one she ever received. Nothing came by Christmas. But at the beginning of the new year, two men in uniform delivered her a telegram that shattered her world.

_First Lieutenant Rhysand Knight_

_Shot down in action. MIA, presumed KIA_

It dropped her. That telegram, those words. She remembered collapsing, holding that paper in shaking hands, tears blurring the words until the swam before her. She remembered being helped into the house and Nesta’s arms around her.

A letter came from Cassian, telling her what had happened. She had only been able to read it once. Not that it was particularly illuminating, half of it redacted. But he had told her that he had circled the field against orders to see if there was any hope that Rhys had survived.

There was none.

Life was blank after that. Feyre just stared at the wall in her room, for days on end. There were no more tears after that first day. Just horrid emptiness.

Until she couldn’t miss any more days of work, couldn’t lay in her empty bed any longer.

So she pulled herself up and returned to her life. What little was left of it. Her coworkers tiptoed around her, as they did all the widows. She could barely speak to them most days anyway. Life became one unending night, a nightmare she couldn’t wake from.

She tried not to hope. The likelihood he had survived was low. And then the likelihood that he would survive as a prisoner of war until the fighting ceased was even lower. But there was a small glimmer she could never quite put out.

Feyre kept writing to him though. It was the only thing that kept her sane. She told him about her days, about their work, about the antics of the nephew he would likely never meet.

Every letter she signed with all her love.

Each letter returned to her undeliverable, the ancient looking mailman’s eyes full with deep understanding and pity, as if he knew.

The box was full of her letters. She never opened them, never reread them. If they were ever read in this life again, it would be by _him._

Feyre took out her pen and paper now.

_December 20th, 1945_

_I should be rejoicing. Cassian will be home for Christmas. So many men are finally getting to come home. Though the war officially ended months ago, the process to get them home has been long and drawn out. Cassian is one of the lucky ones. It may take many another year even to return home._

_In a few short hours, they will be a family again. Little Henry will finally meet his father. Nesta is already talking about a small wedding ceremony. I am trying to feel happy for them, but I am afraid that seeing Cassian without you will be the final nail in the coffin. I’ve tried not to hope, but word would have come by now, wouldn’t it? Most of the POW have been recovered and are returning home too. I am so afraid that I will sit on that pier and hope for a miracle and my soul will finally shatter when you don’t get off that boat_

_It will truly mean that you are really gone and I am all alone. Marked forever by your love and by losing it._

_It’s a silly thought, but I wish now that we hadn’t been so careful. That you had left someone in me as Cassian did with Nesta. Then a little piece of you would still be here with me. But how cruel of me, to wish to have a child if only not to be alone in my grief._

_And I am so alone._

_I wanted your children. I wanted to wake up every morning with you and go to sleep next to you every night. I wanted to grow old with you._

_I wanted to live with you._

_I am not sure how to end my letters anymore. Knowing you will never read them. I suppose so I will have to stop writing them. There’s not enough paper in the world to hold my grief. Soon, It'll be soon. But not yet. I’m not ready to lose this yet. I’m not ready to lose you yet._

_All my love,_

_Feyre_

The words blurred before her and Feyre allowed herself to cry for the first time in months, allowed herself to cry for her lost love and broken heart and bleak future. Allowed the loneliness that she barely held at bay to seep into her bones and take up residence in her heart.

She had had all his love and him hers. But now she was a husk of herself, lonely and empty.

A soft knock sounded on the door and Feyre hastily wiped her eyes and stuffed the letters back into the box.

“Come in!” she failed to infuse her voice with happiness.

Mor peeked her head in. She had been back for a few months, already working to push more women’s rights for employment. They were being laid off in droves now at the factories and plants. She was living in Los Angles, but was here for the holidays. Elain and Azriel had been back for a few months now as well, the European conflict had resolved much earlier. They had moved in temporarily, but the shiny new ring on Elian’s finger meant they wouldn’t be staying for long.

“Breakfast is read- Oh, Feyre!” Feyre could never hide from Mor her feelings, her friend understood her in a way her own sister never quite could. She rushed to her side, wrapping her in her arms.

For a moment she resisted, but then she allowed Mor to hold her, to make her feel a little less alone. The tears came again, soaking her face, but Feyre couldn’t bring herself to care.

“You don’t have to come, you know. Cassian will understand. And between Az, Nesta, Elain, and I, there will be plenty of adults to keep Henry in check.”

Feyre shook her head and wiped her face. “No, no. I want to be there. Cassian is my family too. And Rhys...he would’ve wanted me to be there.”

Mor tucked pulled Feyre’s hair out of her face, the strands damp from tears, clearly wanting to protest, but instead she said “As long as you’re sure.”

Feyre only nodded in response and shooed Mor away. She turned back to the box of letters and gently pulled out the one she had written that morning, folded it neatly and slid it in the stack, before shelving her grief again.

She would send the letter later. Only to have it come back to her again.

The morning flew by in a rush. Too many people in their little apartment, too much noise for the aching in Feyre’s head. She moved in a daze most of the day, not quite all there with her family.

Then finally, they were walking to the docks, the boats would be arriving within the hour. And their men would be home.

But not Feyre’s. 

She felt so out of place. Elain had her arm tucked in Azriel’s and Mor and Nesta each held one of Henry’s hands. And even though Nesta reached out to take Feyre’s hand as well, her face giddy for once, Feyre felt like she was an observer in the moment. She didn’t belong here.

The feeling followed her all the way to the docks and kept her company as they waited. It only grew as the crowds cheered and waved their flags as men debarked and returned, long as last, to their loved ones.

She didn’t belong here, among the living. Yes, she breathed and moved and spoke, but she had been dead inside for nearly a year now. Her presence only brought gloom to this joyous occasion, only made her family feel guilty for being happy. And they deserved to feel happy, after what the world had suffered through.

Without waiting to see Cassian, without waiting to see her sister become whole again, Feyre turned and left, pushing through the crowd. She could hear Mor call after her, but she was too far gone to turn back now. And she was right. They would understand. 

Street after street she walked, the sound of the crowds growing dimmer and dimmer, until it was nearly silent. Hardly any other soul was out. Most were at the docks, welcoming their men home. It wasn’t until she arrived at her own building that she saw another person. The postman.

His old, weathered hands pulled a letter from his sack and handed it to her.

“I saw this and decided it was best to give it to you in person.” He gave her a soft smile, full of understanding. “I didn’t want you to be alone when you read it.”

Feyre took it from him with shaking hands, knowing this was the news her heart had been waiting for. Good or bad, the answers she needed were in this letter.

“I can’t…” she whispered, her voice weak with fear. But all the same she sat down on the steps, and slowly tore the envelope open.The postman sat down next to her, not speaking, but his presence a reassurance nonetheless.

Taking a deep breath, Feyre opened the letter. The handwriting was not his, but the words, oh the words, t _hey were._

_December 1st, 1945_

_Darling,_

_Forgive the hand that’s writing this letter. I couldn’t get mine to stop shaking long enough to write. Forgive also, my love, these last few months. I can only imagine the pain and grief you have suffered through. Forgive me, for not writing back as I promised I would. Oh Feyre, I am so sorry._

_I am sure by now you must know what happened. My plane was shot down over enemy territory. As it plummeted to the ground, I could only pray to the maker that I would have a chance to see you again. As I was taken prisoner, I was afraid. Afraid you would give up on me. Afraid I would never make it back to you. Afraid that the future I promised you on our wedding day would never happen._

_For months, I did not know if I would survive. So many did not. And when word finally came we were going home, that we would be free, I could barely sleep for joy. But it took so long for them to come for us. I began to lose hope._

_Now I am safe, but I am afraid again. I am broken and weak. I am no longer whole. I am a shell of the man I once was. I would understand if you never came for me. But still I hope that you will._

_All my love,_

_Rhys_

Feyre gasped. There on the page, was all the proof her heart needed.

_All my love_

_All my love_

_All my love_

The words echoed in her heart and stitched her shattered soul back together. It was truly him.

“He’s alive,” Feyre choked out the words. And for the first time, she felt peace.

-

She flew to Hawaii as soon as she could. The official notice of Rhys’s recovery as a POW came along with arrangements to go and see him. He was still too weak to travel. But she didn’t care what state he was in. The little flare of hope in her soul had caught and she was aglow with it now.

When the nurses directed her to the correct room, Feyre hesitated before entering. They had warned her, had explained his condition before she came so she was aware. He had been wounded from his crash and then forced into hard labor on a broken body. He was not going to be the man she remembered. Feyre knew this, but now she was afraid, afraid he would be unrecognizable.

But as she walked into the room, familiar violet eyes found hers. He was thinner, almost gaunt, and his skin sallow, but he was Rhys. _Her Rhys._ Breathing and smiling and so so very much alive.

It was all she could do not to run across the room.

When she finally reached him, his eyes full of trepidation and not once leaving hers, his scent washed over her. There was a layer of antiseptic hospital to it now, but underneath it was just him. Feyre took his hand in hers, thinner than she remembered and calloused in new places, and brought it to her mouth, kissing him softly, hoping her actions communicated all the feelings in her heart.

“I wished on all the stars for this,” he whispered.

“So did I,” Feyre answered. “And I am so glad they listened.”

And then she was sobbing. A year's worth of unshed tears, of grief and loneliness and fear. Rhys tugged her to him and she laid down next to him. Wrapped in their love, never to be parted again.

-

_One year later_

She dreamt of him again. Of Rhys. Of light kisses in the early morning and being wrapped in his warmth. She often had this dream. It would likely haunt her for the rest of her life.

And though the bed was empty when she awoke, it was not cold. She did not have to lay there and fight to remember the smell of his skin. It permeated every blanket piled high on the bed.

Feyre slipped from the bed and into her slippers. She never left them downstairs these days. It was far too cold to go without them. She shuffled downstairs, knowing what she would find.

Rhys would be awake, curled on the couch, a mug of coffee steaming in his hands, likely reading the newspaper or a book. He could never sleep in anymore. A lingering scar from the war, one of the easier ones to deal with.

It had taken them time, to reacquaint themselves with each other, to find how their jagged pieces fit in together again. It was hard for her to let go of the aching loneliness that had taken root in her soul and he...his demons would never leave him. But they slowly became quieter. They had moved from California a few months ago to the mountains of Colorado and it had done so much good for him. The noise and the bustle of the crowds were now too much, but the peace in the mountains soothed his soul. Both of their souls. Their family missed them, but it was for the best. Neither of them were the same people they had once been. 

Gone now were the lazy, careless mornings she dreamt about, for now at least. But that easy, light love had been replaced with something sweeter, deeper. Over their year of healing, their bond became more profound. They _knew_ each other, they saw the heaviness in each other’s hearts, and loved them for it.

Some days, she felt they communicated soul to soul more than words to words. But still, Rhys managed to surprise her on the occasion, like today.

He wasn’t reading the newspaper or a book, but her letters. She had given them to him, and told him he could read them whenever he was ready, if he wanted to. Or he could just burn them. She had nearly forgotten about them, until that very moment. Scattered all around, on every surface, piled on the coffee table, letters were everywhere. And Rhys sat in the middle of them, his red-rimmed eyes glued to the page in front of him, his hair tousled. He looked so much better now, he had filled out with his healthy diet over the year and had allowed his hair to grow long again. He still made her heart beat fast, just by looking at him.

“Rhys,” she said gently, not wanting to startle him.

He looked up at her and smiled. Moving letters aside, he made space for her on the couch and held open his arms, his intention clear. Feyre crossed the room and settled into his embrace.

“You read them,” She said.

“I just finished the last one,” he spoke into her hair. “Darling, I am so sorry. For the grief you suffered, that I put you through.”

“True,” Feyre looked up at him. “But it was nothing to what you suffered.”

“Just because I had different pain than you, doesn’t mean yours was any less painful. And your words...Feyre, you were so alone.”

“There was nothing you could have done to change that. And I have you now,” she whispered, “that’s all that matters.”

For awhile, they just say there, allowing themselves to just be. Hours could have passed or just mere seconds, but eventually, Rhys spoke again.

“Feyre?”

“Hmm?” 

“In your last letter, the one you wrote the day Cassian came home, you wrote something...about wanting to have children with me. To have a life with me, a future with me…”

Feyre looked up at Rhys, meeting his eyes. They were full of questions, doubt, and a little hope. The kind of hope that could break a person.

“I remember,” she said softly.

“Is that something you still want? Children...a future, all of it.”

Feyre couldn’t speak, but nodded. Oh yes, _yes_ , she wanted it all. 

Rhys swallowed and Feyre could see his fear, another scar from the war. “With me?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

Feyre pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Absolutely,” she said, unashamed of the tears that filled her eyes. “I want whatever future you want.”

“All of it,” Rhys said, “I want all of it, with you.”


End file.
